


This Boat May Float, But It Don't Steer

by PuppiesRainbowsSadism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A lot of Hurt, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27424123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppiesRainbowsSadism/pseuds/PuppiesRainbowsSadism
Summary: Post-season-5 UACas drags Sam back up from the Cage -- soul and all -- and brings him to a secluded cabin in the northern US. He expects that Sam will need to recover, physically and mentally, from his time in hell, but he couldn't have anticipated what exactly that meant.(Warnings for vague descriptions of violence and implications of sexual assault. Also, Sam has SEVERE PTSD, so keep that in mind trigger-wise. Rating may go up if I keep writing.)
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	1. Livin' the Life

**Author's Note:**

> I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I left the Supernatural fandom a few years ago, and stopped watching regularly a few years before that. I don’t remember much of the show in the way of details, and forget anything after season 8. But just hearing about what happened in that last episode pissed me off so much that my inner Sam stan and sastiel shipper rose from the grave like vengeful zombies who have it out for the necromancer who created them in the first place.
> 
> Convoluted similes aside, this is entirely fueled by spite and my own unresolved trauma. Characterizations will probably be off, but this is a UA anyway. Take any plot inconsistencies as a part of this universe. Unbetaed. Enjoy.
> 
> (Work and chapter titles all from "Broken Bones" by Anti-Flag.)

The last thing he remembers is burning. Skin sticking and freezing – a tongue stuck to a metal pole – ripping and bleeding and freezing again. Diaphragm stuttering, lungs shattering, blood and bile and mucus. Menthol thick on his tongue. Eyelashes glued together, stuck shut, goosebumps a thing of the past. Every atom slowing to a stop, then looping right back around and flying apart at impossible speeds.

So cold it burns.Time doesn’t stop. Time is always stopped. There is no end, and he chose this. He will never forget – he won’t be allowed to forget.

Then: Nothing.

* * *

Sam slept like the dead, which was a disturbing enough thought as it was. His bodily injuries were minimal, thankfully, but the rest . . .

Cas wouldn’t know until he woke up.

He was endlessly patient, once. Time was an illusion that humans maintained. God created the universe in seven days, resting for one, which led some to believe that “one day” equaled anywhere from a couple thousand years to several billion, depending on who you asked. It was paradoxical, nonlinear, and of almost no consequence, except for a few nonspecific deadlines.

The Winchesters had changed a lot, more than they probably realized.

The coastline paradox – the smaller the measurements used to measure a coastline, the larger the final number is. A fractal measured in centimeters is several times longer than one measured in kilometers. The devil is in the details.

The point being, Cas faced what might have been the most frustrating exercise in his entire long life: Keeping himself busy. It did more harm than good to hover over Sam as he slept, constantly monitoring him. Cas needed his own rest, even if he required no sleep. Their current location afforded them a certain level of privacy, and hopefully a sense of familiarity for Sam when he did awaken, which unfortunately meant little in the way of things to occupy himself with. There was a Bible on the bedside table (New Testament only), a handful of books on a mostly empty bookshelf (a couple of romance novels with the same man on the cover and three murder mysteries; the rest of the shelf held decorations and souvenirs from adjacent states, including a snow globe that kept him distracted for at least an hour), several nature trails near the property that he wandered down dozens of times with varying emotional responses (awe, melancholy, rage), and a lake that was probably a popular fishing spot judging by the docks and signage (it was empty of boats and humans alike).

After exhausting his options multiple times, Cas spent a lot of time making stories. The quilt on the bed was clearly made by someone with experience. The fabric was soft and mismatched. What kind of person made it? How did it come to be? How about the one that was clearly crocheted with skilled hands many years ago? Who collected the tchotchkes on the shelf and why?

Cas experienced boredom for the first time.

He felt awful about it, of course. Especially once he realized that Sam had no way of maintaining his health if he was unconscious. He needed to eat and drink, surely. It would have been wiser to take him to a hospital, but that wasn't an option. But once he had fixed that problem -- in a manner that didn't take from the needy, of course -- all he had was the waiting, and the accompanying boredom. There was no guarantee that Sam would even wake up, or that he would be cognizant if he did, or that he'd even remember what happened. Perhaps he'd wonder why he was waking up in a secluded cabin with an IV in his arm and Cas as company and a chunk missing from his memory and just leave. Cas was concerned for him, of course. Fearful, even, but such emotions were tiring and couldn't last the weeks and weeks he waited without simmering into a constant level of anxiety that just sort of overlaid everything like a light dusting of snow. He couldn't even be angry (at those who put them in this position, in God, in himself) without it petering out into a bone deep exhaustion by the end of the day.

So he walked. And read. And made stories. He made sure the kitchen was always stocked with non-spoiled food and Sam's IV never ran out. He warded the area, then did it again farther, stronger, more exclusive, more layered. He did sleep, or something like it, just to pass the time (it didn't, much). He never strayed too far from the cabin for too long just in case something happened. He rested himself physically and maintained his sanity and tried not to expect the worst until the day Sam finally awoke.


	2. Wake Up Wondering: “How Did I Get Here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enochian will sometimes be translated, sometimes not, depending on what fits narratively. All Enochian is in italics, translated or not. Sorry, I make the rules. (Also, I just plugged English phrases into a translator online. If you happen to be an Enochian specialist, please feel free to correct me.)

There were a million possibilities with too many factors to consider. Time -- paradoxical and nonlinear on earth -- was different in hell, although it was difficult to track the difference exactly. Sure, four months had _felt_ like forty years, but torture did that to the mind no matter the circumstances. There were no day and night cycles in hell. It was a whole other dimension without a rotational axis to judge time by. Short of taking a stopwatch along on a trip there and back, it was nearly impossible to say just how long one minute of earth time lasted in hell.

Sam might have been down there for a little over a century, or maybe millennia, or perhaps the Cage was different still and worked the other way around. Only two people could know for sure, and they weren't offering any answers.

Cas might have expected screaming and fighting when Sam awoke. It seemed the most likely option after all he'd been through, waking up in an unfamiliar place. He would have even expected Sam to attempt to run as soon as he was cognizant enough to do so. But Cas didn't even notice when it happened.

Sam was still, silent, the only clues that he was awake being the changing of his breathing pattern and the fact that his eyes were open. Cas breathed a sigh of relief before he could warn himself not to get his hopes up.

"Sam," he said softly, like speaking to a skittish animal, "Can you hear me?"

No response. Cas would have thought he'd fallen back asleep if he wasn't looking right at him. He cleared his throat gently and tried again, stepping just a little closer.

"How do you feel?" Stupid question, truthfully, but he hadn't thought this far ahead. It apparently didn't matter because Sam still didn't seem to realize he was there.

Cas took one more step towards the bed. He didn't want to hover or crowd, but he needed to figure out what the problem was.

Eyes are the windows to the soul. He'd heard it somewhere once, said flippantly like a common idiom. He had thought it was beautiful at the time, if inaccurate. Humans could not see souls, in general, but he took it to mean that one could know another's true intentions and emotions from good eye contact. It seemed as plausible as anything. 

There was nothing behind Sam's eyes. They were blank, glassy, lifeless, aimed at the ceiling without actually seeing anything. It was concerning not just for the obvious reasons, but because Cas had checked on Sam periodically each day, making sure all bodily functions were in order and working as they should be. He never found anything to suggest that his sight or hearing would be negatively affected.

Cas slowly reached a hand out to touch him, needing to be sure. Maybe he missed something or failed to anticipate it. Sam did move, then, infinitesimally. His eyes didn't move, but his eyelids fluttered like they wanted to close. His muscles tensed in anticipation of the touch. He took a deep breath in and held it. This was not a deafblind man. It was a broken one.

Whatever Cas may have expected, it wasn't this. In a way, it was worse. The Sam he knew was strong, willful, determined. This was not the same man who held Lucifer at bay long enough to imprison them both. Nor was this the man who knew when a fight was ill advised, when to run away and regroup, when to charge in full force versus when to hang back and gather information. Those men were still in there, to be sure. Somewhere, maybe deep down, fundamentally changed, but present. But this man, this Sam, before him now had given up.

No human was meant to withstand the Cage, let alone with Lucifer still inside it. Cas couldn't begin to imagine the horrors Sam had endured. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and rested his hand on Sam's shoulder. His skin was freezing, but it always was. His internal temperature was fine. He was frail, hungry, and pale, but everything seemed to be working as it should under the circumstances.

" _Ag_ ," Sam choked out, voice dry and hoarse with misuse.

It could have been a noise of disbelief or anger or any other emotion, really. It could have been unintentional. It could have been a word he was trying to articulate through a mouth that had not opened in months now, but it wasn't, and it froze Cas's blood in his veins.

"What did you say?"

Sam looked down to where Cas was touching him for a brief moment before he wrenched away. " _Ds i oi?_ " he bit out through clenched teeth. His breath was coming faster, his eyes darting around until they landed on the exit. Panic. He shoved himself off the bed and struggled to stand on weak legs.

"Calm down. Please," Cas urged, knowing it was probably futile. "Let me explain -- "

" _Ds geh g gohol? ol gnay ge om, ol . . ._ " Sam trailed off, staring down at his hands, shaking in his lap. At the IV drip. Scanning the room at large. Finally landing on Cas, and although his gaze was not quite clear, not quite lucid, there was at least emotion there now. Fear. " _T i ge malprg. Bagle i t ge --_ "

Enochian, of course. It made sense, but it was startling to hear a human speak it with the fluency of a native speaker.

" _Please calm down,_ " Cas tried. He didn't want to block the exit and seem like a threat, but he didn't want to let Sam run off and potentially hurt himself either. He settled for standing a couple of feet from the bed with his hands raised placatingly. " _You're safe_."

" _Oh,"_ Sam said tonelessly, apparently coming to some realization. " _This is a trick_."

" _No, Sam_."

" _This is a good trick_. _It feels more real than the last ones._ "

The last ones. A disturbing implication that Cas filed away to deal with later. " _This is no trick. How can I convince you?_ "

Sam looked genuinely surprised at the question and seemed to give it some thought before shaking his head. " _You cannot_."

"Okay. That's fair. _What will you do?_ "

Whatever fighting spirit Sam had regained seemed to leave him all at once at the question. His shoulders dropped, and his legs gave out from under him, landing him sitting on the floor. " _There is nothing I can do, right?_ "

" _You can run_ ," Cas suggested unsure why he was doing so except that to see Sam so defeated was more than he could bear. " _You can fight._ "

Sam shook his head again. " _Do what you will_."

Cas focused on keeping his breathing steady. He had to at least appear calm. He had no way of knowing what Sam had seen or been put through or what these "other tricks" were, but calm and composed seemed like a better option than anything else.

" _I am going to approach you now, Sam,_ " he announced as he did just that. " _And I am going to lift you back into the bed. Would you like something to eat?_ _"_ Sam offered no resistance, nor did he offer a response. "Okay. _I am going to check on your . . . "_ It was a highly limited language, ancient by anyone's standards. Cas gestured to the IV drip, which may have been jostled but still stood. Again, Sam didn't respond and went back to laying in bed passively, only tensing a little when Cas had to touch him to make sure the needle had not moved.

" _Rest_." It sounded like a command -- another side effect of Enochian was the lack of pleasantries -- but Cas was slightly disheartened when Sam immediately closed his eyes. He was still anxious, clearly, anticipating who knew what. It was quite some time before he actually fell asleep.

 _G ipamis_. You cannot. It was disheartening, to say the very least, but it also, strangely, made Cas feel proud -- that Sam recognized that there were no secrets between them that Lucifer did not also know, that he knew he would not be tricked. It was a depressing sort of confidence, but it was confidence all the same, and it gave Cas some hope. It was more than he had expected.

It could have been worse. It was horrific as it was, but it could have been so much worse.

Sam slept fitfully and woke often, taking a while to actually fall back asleep but never failing to do so. If nothing else, Cas was glad that Sam could have this brief respite on his own. He was fully prepared to force Sam into sleep if necessary, but he didn't want it to be necessary.

What Cas needed was to not hurt Sam again. To do this one thing right, no matter the personal cost. He would never be able to make amends for what he had already done, even if he lived to the world's end twice over. Saving Sam, helping him heal now, would not erase the fact that Cas was the one who put him in this situation to begin with. But it was something. A step in the right direction, perhaps.

When Sam was not sleeping, he was staring, just as before. Waiting. Cas tried to get him to drink water on his own or eat some real food or stand up for a while, holding something for support, to get some of his strength back. He would not, unless Cas made it a command; then he did what was asked mindlessly. It made Cas feel sick to think of how Sam ended up this way, so obedient, but he tried not to let it bother him too much. Sam had to recover as much as humanly possible -- physically _and_ mentally -- and if giving him the command to eat, drink, or stand up made it happen, well. It was a guilty victory, but a victory nonetheless.

As much as Cas thought himself patient, Sam exceeded his limits. It was another several weeks before he finally spoke of his own accord.

" _What is happening?_ " he asked.

" _What do you mean?_ " Cas asked right back.

" _It has been a long time._ "

That didn't clarify anything. " _A long time since what?_ "

Sam didn't answer, shaking his head as if dismissing a thought, and that was that for a long time.

It was the only question Sam ever asked, and the only thing he ever said that wasn't in direct response to a question, not that he answered most of them anyway. _What is happening?_ and _It has been a long time._ Sometimes it seemed like Sam wasn't speaking to anyone in particular, perhaps thinking out loud.

Eventually, Cas realized what Sam was trying to say. Unfortunately, answering him with " _I'm not going to hurt you_ " yielded the same result.

 _Time heals all wounds_ was another idiom that Cas had heard, or perhaps read. A situation like this would obviously take more care, but perhaps getting Sam to believe he was safe was the first step.

( _Safe._ There was no corresponding word in Enochian.)

**Author's Note:**

> Not to show my age, but flames will be deleted and users will be blocked.


End file.
